Page 101 of Corrupted Bride

30

BASS

Hill Country Memorial Chapel looks like a generic dark gray box on a quiet Austin street. The shrubs are well maintained and I doubt most people even realize it’s a funeral home.

The place is empty as I walk through the front door. Don Nardo’s service isn’t until tomorrow but this is where they’re keeping his body. The floors are covered in dark green rugs, and crosses and flowers are tacked to the walls. A room filled with chairs is prepped and ready. Nobody bothers me as I find the back stairs and descend into the basement.

It smells like antiseptic. Strange how I’ve sent so many men to places like this over the years but I’ve never been to one myself. The walls are painted teal over cinderblock and it looks more like a hospital now than the vaguely religious space above. I consider calling out, but it feels disrespectful to the dead.

And I don’t need to. Graciela Escalante stands at the far side of the largest room, the area dominated by an exam table with modern lighting and medical equipment. Metal tubes of gasses and other ingredients line the walls. She’s looking at a cabinet, a morgue-style freezer, her fingers resting lightly on the drawer handle like she wants to pull it out.

“I always thought he was too big for a place like this,” she says without looking over. “Nardo always seemed big. I don’t even know why, but even back when we first met, when I was barely a girl, he seemed massive. Bigger than anyone I’d ever met before.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, I doubt it. You men are used to this, aren’t you? How many times have you sent a widow to a funeral home over the years?”

“I was wondering that same question.”

She turns, her face lined and haggard, but determined. There are no tears in her eyes today. She’s in black, but tastefully. Not overwrought like I expected.

“Ruben should be in that box. Not my husband.”

“I agree. I liked him.”

“Nobody believes that for a second, but it doesn’t matter.”

I take her measure. She’s raw but the anger seems real. Nothing fake, nothing performative. “Are we alone here?”

“Yes. The owners owed me a favor. They won’t be back for another hour. But I doubt we need that long.” She considers me a moment. “When I first heard of you and your family, I assumed you were a bunch of second-rate cowboys. That big ranch of yours? I figured you were a joke. But I believe I underestimated you, Bastiano.”

“Thank you.”

Her smile is tense as she runs her fingers across the face of the drawer. “Can you imagine what it was like? Coming down to breakfast every day to that face?”

“It’s hard to imagine. Why did he make you do it?”

“I couldn’t give him children, and in our line of work, babies are a kind of currency. We both understood that we couldn’t go on together if there was no possibility of a family. And so he went and solved the problem.”

I let out a breath, trying to imagine how she felt when baby Ruben came into her life. “Did you know he was going to do that?”

“No, he didn’t say a word. I still don’t know who she was. I never asked. It always felt like something I couldn’t bring up, like if I broke the silence then somehow my life would fall apart. But every day I saw Ruben sitting there with that face, the one that isn’t mine, and it tore at me. The knives jammed deep into my guts. Even his voice killed me.”

“But you didn’t tell a soul.”

“No, I kept my husband’s secrets, because I loved him. Much more than I ever cared about our son.”

“Marisol wants me to trust you, but that’s hard for me.”

She laughs and it’s a twisted, bitter sound. “I don’t blame you for that. You’re a smart man. You know better than to believe in people. But I’m here because I despise Ruben and I want to see him dead. Cruz is not important to me.”

“I appreciate that honesty, but he’s part of whatever deal we strike.”

“Fine, do what you need to do for that boy. I told Marisol I’d make him as comfortable as I can, and that’s what I’ve done. You can tell her I upheld my promise. But now I want something in return.”

She turns to me. The full force of her emotions is painful. Her face is contorted into a mask of rage and I do my best not to flinch at the rawness of it. I’ve never been good at feelings, but here is a flood of them, pouring from her in all their ugliness, all their petty hate.

“Kill Ruben,” she says through her teeth. “Kill him and be done with it.”